


The Hands That Feed You

by Motte (Gwappo)



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Flug is a masochist, Flug is for fug, Gas Lighting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Mindbreak, ranges from dubcon to noncon, so heed those warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwappo/pseuds/Motte
Summary: Flug enjoys teeth and claws on his skin, just not when he didn't ask for them.





	The Hands That Feed You

They say hindsight is 20/20, but looking back on his life, Flug can't pinpoint where it started. There had been touching from the very beginning: strong hands yanking him by the arms, grabbing him by the shoulders, occasionally wrapping around his throat. He could count all the times they'd touched him gently on one hand, but the point still stands.

With regular touching came regular wound licking, spending many a night rubbing ointment into his bruised skin and stitching the occasional gash. If nothing else, it had taught him how to handle a needle and thread quite aptly.

There must have been a point, however, Flug tries to remember, where the way Black Hat laid hands on him had shifted. It's almost seamless, the transition so fluid that whenever he's sure he's found the turning point, an older memory pops up that makes him reconsider.

A hand on his shoulder with a light movement of thumb across the back of Flug's neck, a seemingly accidental bump of hands, the professional distance between them slowly disappearing. They're small, insignificant things, but coming from Black Hat they're almost obscene. 

Weeks later, Flug's train of thought comes to a crashing halt, almost dropping the vial in his hand as an unbidden thought surfaces, making him wonder whether it was supposed to be a come-on. It's beyond ridiculous, but the thought keeps him up all night weighing the odds of flirtation against friendliness. There's no other significant changes; no looks, no smiles, no better treatment.

The next evening, crawling into bed with a fresh bruise on his arm for being out of it all day, Flug comes to the conclusion that he's finally losing his mind.

  


* * *

  


It's five days later when Black Hat comes to see Flug in his lab, the clock about to strike midnight. Flug stifles a yawn before he turns to meet his boss, an explanation for his lack of progress already forming on his tongue.

Black Hat, however, stops him with a mere raise of his hand. "A simples yes or no question, Flug," he says, voice low. "Have you started working on the prototype yet?"

Flug gulps, sweat on his forehead making for a familiar uncomfortable sensation as the paperbag sticks to his skin. "No," he says, then quickly adds, "sir."

The corner of Black Hat's mouth twitches in a snarl as he approaches Flug at a pace that sends him scrambling backwards, tripping over his own feet as he bumps into his worktable with a yelp. Flug lifts his arms to try and shield his head, having learned by now that it's easiest to simply roll with the punches, but Black Hat grips his forearms hard and forces them back down again.

"You're a disgrace," he says, face an inch from Flug's own, who turns his head away and squeezes his eyes shut. "Why do you insult me like this, Flug?"

The pain is unexpected and shocking, sharp edges digging into the juncture of Flug's neck and shoulder, and the screaming and scrambling just happens, hands trying to writhe free to try and push Black Hat off. They both know he is no match for the strong hands holding him steady, and the fangs dig in deeper with every move of Flug's scrawny muscles, the scream drifting off into a whimper so pathetic even to his own ears, tears hot in the corners of his eyes.

Black Hat shakes his head like an animal, tears at the flesh as he clamps down harder, the pain becoming nearly unbearable. It shoots through Flug's body like lightning, down his neck and chest and straight to his dick, leaving him a terrified mess as he lets out a squeak and then a moan that's so loud and humiliating it sets his face aflame.

When Black Hat lets go, loosening his jaw and drawing his teeth out with a slow, sharp sting, Flug hyperventilates as the paperbag sticks to his face, wet with sweat and tears. There's a disgusting slurping sound, like a tongue running across teeth in a deliberately obnoxious manner, but Flug can't quite open his eyes yet, left hand shooting up to hold his aching shoulder as the hold on his arms gives way.

He's used to insults, beating and choking, but for Black Hat to bite him as punishment is a new one, and quite possibly the most conflicting yet.

When Flug dares open his eyes again, Black Hat is gone, the room empty and the clock ten minutes past midnight. He swallows thickly, presses a hand onto the fresh, bleeding wound, and sets off to his bedroom as fast as his wobbly knees will allow.

  


* * *

  


It takes another three days.

To Flug's horror, the wound is still there when he wakes up in the mornings, hoping every time that it was just a very vivid nightmare, the product of a neglected desire he has long since supressed. Instead, he has to disinfect the bite marks twice a day, praying to whoever is willing to listen that the green saliva isn't poisonous.

Black Hat acts like nothing ever happened. He's his usual grumpy self, no more or less threatening than on any regular day. Flug makes sure to wear his labcoat a little tighter, refusing to give his boss the satisfaction of seeing the results of his handiwork.

On the third day, Black Hat catches him in the hallway as they head in each other's direction, and the skin on the back of Flug's neck starts prickling. He wraps his coat around himself, keeping his eyes on the floor as he greets his boss in what he hopes is a polite enough manner.

"Dr. Flug," Black Hat says and stops as they're about to pass each other, and Flug stops walking out of instinct.

Spats enter his field of vision, so Flug lifts his head to make eyec contact, Black Hat's head tilted curiously. He reaches out, and Flug cowers away immediately, shoulders hunching up and eyes squeezing shut, but Black Hat pushes them back down with surprising gentleness.

It's when he feels cold leather tracing his neck that Flug's eyes shoot wide open, surprised and mortified. He watches Black Hat run a careful finger across the incisions he left there, looking deep in thought. 

"Does it still hurt?"

The question catches Flug entirely off-guard, and the small "Yes," escapes his mouth without thinking. "I mean," Flug hurries to add, "I– It's a bit better. I have some trouble moving my shoulder, though."

Black Hat nods, then rightens the shirt and labcoat again. Flug turns to watch as he walks past, trying to understand what just happened.

  


* * *

  


Black Hat keeps him working all night the next day, insisting he'll be able to show off a prototype in the morning. Flug holds onto his worktable for dear life, remembering the two hours of sleep he got last night as he tossed and turned to shake the feeling of teeth and fingers on his neck. His eyes keep threatening to fall shut, vision getting blurry as numbers dance across the schematic on the table, evading his grasp at every turn.

Flug yawns loudly, then leans back as arms wrap around his stomach and keep him upright. Their support lets his feet rest shortly before he comes to with a gasp, trying to turn around and see who's messing with him.

But the grasp on his body tightens, pressing him to a chest slightly broader than his own, warm and comfortable if those hands weren't sneaking under his shirt, feeling strangely cold on his skin.

"W–what is this, d– don't," he tries, slurring his words from fatigue.

There's a shushing noise in his ear, and with a shock that wrecks his whole body Flug notices the black coat sleeves and feels the claws, leather gloves absent. One hand runs itself along his abdomen and up to his chest, lightly dragging its pointy fingers across his skin. The other slips into his pants _(when had they been opened?)_ to grab him through his underwear, rubbing and stroking his half-hard cock.

Flug grits his teeth as he tries to resist the touches, arching into Black Hat behind him and trying to wriggle out of the hold he has on him. It's futile, those arms don't budge an inch, and to his ever growing horror Flug's body responds quite vigorously to the groping, even as he shakes his head and whimpers for it to stop.

Black Hat pulls down on the open pants and briefs just enough to free Flug's erection, wraps his hand around it tight, and the skin contact is amazing and horrifying in the worst possible way, Flug whispering, "Stop, please stop," to no avail. It's rough and fast, but _oh, so good,_ and his cock twitches with every stroke, every twist. 

Black Hat pushes forward then, pressing Flug's thighs into the edge of the table, and with a harsh snap of his hips thrusts himself against Flug's ass, hands and hips building a quick rhythm.

There's tears running down Flug's cheeks as he tries to fight, hates how exhilarating the combination of pleasure and helplessness feels, his mind teetering on the verge of collaps. It's when the first _"Please stop,"_ breaks off into a tiny moan that Black Hat picks up the pace, going harder and faster with both his hand and thrusts, shushing Flug all the while as the vials on the table start rattling, a week's worth of work threatening to fall and break.

The hand on Flug's chest moves across his clavicle, grips the still badly bruised shoulder, and he comes with a whimper, falling back into Black Hat's chest as his knees give way and his body convulses, the feeling of a chronic itch getting scratched putting his mind at peace.

  


* * *

  


When Flug shoots awake the next morning he's in his own bed, eyes darting across the room in disbelief, the ache in his shoulder worse than it has been in days. He takes several deep breaths before he tries to forget that unsettling dream, but still blushes uncomfortably as he notices the embarrassing stains on his shirt.

He's skittish all day, hands shaking and unsteady as he handles tools and chemicals with slow, careful precision. He tries not to think about the non-existent prototype, but it's getting somewhere, somehow, the vision in his mind coming along quite nicely if Flug dare say so himself.

Black Hat pays his lab a visit in the evening, looking mildly satisfied that production is picking up, albeit slowly. They'll have to shoot a commercial soon, he says, for the upcoming new issue of his catalogue.

Flug nods and hums in understanding at the right times, so used to their discussions by now that he might as well navigate them sleeping. One thought, however, manages to slip past his lips in a moment of weakness. "S– sir, what, what was that last night?"

He cringes away as the weight of his question hits, shielding his head from the blow that's sure to come and pressing his legs together as a precaution.

"What do you mean?" Black Hat asks, sounding genuinely confused. "What happened last night?"

Flug blinks in disbelief, slowly lowering his arms as he tries to read Black Hat's face. If he's lying, he's doing it well. "Sir, _please_ ," Flug begs, "just tell me what I did wrong, and I promise it won't happen again. Is it because of the prototype?"

Black Hat blinks, then his face darkens. "Flug," he says, "what on earth _happened_ last night?"

"I..." Flug says, uncomprehending as he tries to make something up on the spot. "I, uh, heard you cursing at me, sir. From across the mansion?"

Black Hat rolls his eyes, snorts. "Get back to work, Dr. Flug."

And he's gone again, closing the door as Flug counts his blessings that he didn't get mutilated for that idiotic lie.

  


* * *

  


In a stroke of pure idiocy, Flug tries to drown his mind the next day. He usually never drinks, neither a fan of the taste nor the effects, but all the thinking he's done over the past days is finally taking a toll on his mind. It's surprisingly stressful to supress those memories and the question of why his body had decided to torment him like this now.

So Flug tosses back one or three shots too many in too short a time and coherent thought is a thing of the past. He's on his bed, lying spread-eagle on top of the blanket in sweatpants, shirt and paperbag. He's drifting in and out of sleep, feeling a stomach ache coming on and the first signs of nausea rising, but he's empty, unthinking, unaccountable for anything he does.

At the foot of the bed stands a dark form, watching him. It gets on the bed as Flug stares, and when it reaches the radius of his bedside lamp, he tries to scramble backwards. "No," he begs, "Please, not again."

But Black Hat climbs atop him, knees on either side of Flug's legs, a hand slipping underneath the paperbag to turn his head by the chin. "Hm," Flug hears him say, desperately trying to get that hand off his face. "Quite out of it, are we?"

" _Please_. Not _again_."

Black Hat sits up on top of him, studying his hidden face. "You enjoy this."

Flug shakes his head as much as he can, repeating "No, no, no, no," over and over again, eyes squeezed shut in hopes it's all in his head.

But Black Hat chuckles, one hand caressing Flug's chin as the other grabs onto his forearm with a strength that will surely leave a bruise. "Yes, you do," Black Hat drawls. "You lie awake at night asking yourself why. You're sick, Flug. It's quite beautiful."

Flug's chest tightens as the hand on his arm lets go again, leaving it stinging and pulsating, to pull down his pants instead, all so fluid and quick that his sluggish mind cannot catch up in time. He struggles as Black Hat scoots down his body and settles on his thighs, and the hand under his paperbag slips out and down to his chest, the weight it carries making it hard to breathe.

Black Hat drags his knuckles up Flug's half-hard dick, humming as it twitches. "You only have yourself to blame, Dr. Flug."

And then he clamps down on both of Flug's wrists, pinning his arms to the matress as that long, wet tongue runs up Flug's dick, leaves him twitching and jolting even as he's unable to catch his breath, shaking all over. It's too much to handle for his spinning head, the pain in his wrists coupled with the warm flood of ecstasy that travels up his spine, settles between his ribs and lungs.

There's a hint of teeth as Black Hat swallows him down, razor sharp teeth pressing down light enough to make sure Flug knows whose mouth is on him, the pain in his healing shoulder spiking like it hasn't in days. One wrong move and it will all be over, he'll get ripped to a million tiny pieces by those long, pointy fangs, and for reasons entirely beyond his comprehension, Flug gets closer and closer with every possible bad end playing out in his head.

He doesn't know how long it lasts; he's high on adrenaline, and it all happens so quickly as he wheezes to try and supress moans and whimpers, Black Hat pulling off to squeeze his cock instead, gripping too tight and pumping too roughly.

Flug sputters as he comes, whimpering and arching off the bed as his sick mind blacks out.

  


* * *

  


When Flug comes to, he's alone; still lying on his back like he remembers, one hand down his own pants and cum stains on his shirt _again_. The hangover from last night and the hand-shaped bruises on his wrists send him running to the bathroom, heaving and choking.

  


* * *

  


Days go by in a blur, Flug's hands relying on muscle memory as work moves forward at a stagnating pace. It's not until Black Hat comes by in the evenings, no change in behavior whatsoever and tells Flug to rest for now that it all comes rushing back.

His bed feels uncomfortable, conjuring up the memories whenever he's about to pass out. Flug considers drinking again for a second, but he's learned that lesson quite well now. So he tosses and turns as the hours tick by on his alarm clock, red digits glowing mockingly in the dark, and at some point he finally drifts off to sleep.

A blow to the head shakes Flug awake again, body hurting all over as he scrambles to sit up, but the ground is hard and unyielding and the disorientation is making him dizzy. There's something pressing down on his eyes, keeping him blind and directionless as he notices with rising horror that his goggles are gone.

Flug feels exposed, grabbing at his own face to find the paperbag still in place, but there's no time for relief as his head is shoved harshly against the floor. There's shifting above him, and Flug flashes back to several days ago, only this time his ribs and skull ache like he's been kicked apart and haphazardly reassembled.

A hand runs down Flug's chest to his abdomen, bellybutton, crotch, and he's hard, cursing his sick head and troubled mind for betraying him yet again. He recognizes the deep breathing and rough hands, tries to push him away at the chest, but Flug's arms are too weak to do much more than hold onto the layers of thick cotton, a pleased noise escaping Black Hat's throat.

"Intriguing," he drawls, voice low and teasing. "How often have you touched yourself envisioning this, Doctor?"

Flug opens his mouth to scream, bite, _anything_ , but all that escapes him is a breathless whimper as Black Hat strokes him, presses his other hand down harder on Flug's face who grabs the offending arm with both of his own to try and free his eyes. They both know it's useless, and Black Hat moves on top of him again, removes the hand on Flug's dick and leaves him groaning in exasperation, twitching and desperate and cursing his unhealthy fantasies.

Everything happens so fast after that: there's a different sensation at the tip of Flug's cock, body going stiff as he realizes what is happening and tries to protest, but his throat hurts so much, Black Hat's hand wrapping around his neck and squeezing his windpipe shut, leaving him sputtering and squirming even as he twitches inside his boss. Black Hat clamps down harder, leans forward with a growl. _"Thrust,"_ he says, and Flug knows an order when he hears one.

It's painful and awkward, the hard floor hurting his back with every move, and the ache combined with the tight, hot sensations around his cock leaves Flug a trembling mess. It's hard to thrust when he can't quite breathe, but when Black Hat squeezes his throat a few times and commands, "Harder!" Flug's brain shuts down entirely.

He slams up again and again and again, whimpering with every thrust as his tailbone hurts and chest burns, and Black Hat's thumb slowly swirls across the side of Flug's neck as he releases a sound of satisfied approval. "Tell me," Black Hat says. "Tell me what you want."

Flug grips the hand around his neck, shakes his head to try and free his eyes to no avail. "S-stop," he mutters, and Black Hat _tsks_ above him.

"No, no," he chastises, voice calm. "Tell me what that sick head of yours _really_ wants."

Flug's face burns hot with shame, paperbag soaked with sweat and clinging to his skin. He tries to swallow, then whispers, "H-harder, boss," as he makes sure to never stop thrusting. Another low hum of approval, and Flug's hands scramble for something to hold onto as his windpipe is being crushed, spurring him on as he fears he might actually suffocate, snapping his hips erratically and coming within seconds, riding out the orgasm for as long as he can.

  


* * *

  


The memory ends there, Flug realizes as he claws at the bag on his head and tries not to tremble, missing the crucial part of how he got back to his own bedroom afterwards. It's the same old story every time, the lines between reality and dream too blurry to tell how authentic the encounter really was, but the blossoming bruise on Flug's neck tells a story of its own.

He takes stuttering breaths as he remembers his throat aching and head ready to burst, still unable to tell horror from arousal. It's too much, the weight of his mind too heavy to bear for another day, feeling so lost as his twisted yearnings won't let him rest.

Flug's feet carry him with purposeful steadiness as he paces down the hallway to Black Hat's office, feeling hurt and betrayed as he rips the door open and slams it shut behind himself, the immediate curses and threats not reaching his ears as he screams, _"SHUT UP!"_

And Black Hat does, frowning and drooling with rage but unmoving as Flug walks up to his desk and stabs a finger into his chest. "I've _had_ it with you!" Flug yells, beyond hysterical. "You've tortured me long enough with your manipulative mind tricks! This ends _here_ and _now_!"

Black Hat's face loosens a little, something like curiosity forming in his eyes. Flug's entire body trembles as he continues, "You think you can just do whatever you want? Creep up on me and touch me at night? I can put up with the disrespect and the insults, but I draw the line at sexual assault! And then you go and twist the situation to blame it all on _me_ , by calling me sick, by telling me I _want_ it! You think I'm _that_ stupid, don't you! To believe that none of it is real, it's all just in my sick head! Well, guess what, I'm not putting up with your abuse anymore! I've heard enough of your lies to last me a lifetime, and I don't need your violence and I don't need _you!_ If you touch me _one more time,_ I will – I, I w–will..."

Flug's voice cracks on the last syllables as his mind catches up with the situation he has gotten himself into, drawing back his outstretched hand as it shakes, and he suddenly feels so small in the face of Black Hat's questioning eyes, head cocked with curiosity. He stumbles backwards, his head spinning as he flees the office.

His feet hurt with every step as he runs back to his bedroom, and when he crashes down on his bed, Flug realizes he just tied a noose around his own neck and put it in his executioner's hands.

  


* * *

  


Nothing happens for days.

Flug's own actions have cranked his paranoia up to eleven, fearing every night to be his last, dreading the moment he will wake up to Black Hat pinning him down again. He has yet to get his legs broken or ribs cracked, and that loud, anxious voice in the back of Flug's mind tries to convince him that everything up until now was just foreplay.

And a smaller, unwelcome voice reminds him how much he craves just that. Sharp claws and teeth digging into his skin, tearing him apart inch by inch, limb from limb. He yearns for those hands around his neck again, the sting of cold leather as they leave marks all over his body, toss him down just to pick him up and hurt him again, over and over and over as his sick mind is appeased, his shattered form vibrating with pleasure.

Sleep eludes Flug most nights as he claws at his own face and prays he could just disappear.

  


* * *

  


He's in bed on his stomach when the door opens and shuts quietly, the sound sending a rush of adrenaline through Flug's body that shakes him out of his light slumber. He crosses his arms over the back of his head, clenching his teeth as the first tears well up, and his body convulses as the matress dips down behind him.

 _"Go away,"_ he chokes out, letting the tears flow as he whimpers and snarls. "You can't do this to me again. Not again. I can't _take_ it anymore."

It's utterly pathetic he knows, but his muscles refuse to move and turn as he feels knees and hands settling on either side of him. The weight on his back is warm and menacing, just light enough to let him breathe freely, and there's the shushing sound again right next to his ear, one hand smoothing over Flug's clothed shoulders.

"I'm doing this for you," Black Hat whispers. "We both know you've been miserable these last few days."

Flug shakes his head, rubs his wet face into the soggy paperbag as he sobs, praying to wake up, _wake up_ , and leave this fever dream of a life behind. He feels his shirt being lifted, pants pulled down without preamble, but there's a buzzing sound in his ears that drones out the world around, mind so torn over what's to come.

He's wearing the gloves, Flug realizes as hands come down on his ass, kneading it roughly with a hint of claws palpable through the leather, and Flug whimpers and chokes on his own spit as they spread him open. Black Hat hums approvingly, his breathing deep and the slightest bit trembling as he whispers, "Yes, beautiful. Keep crying."

And Flug couldn't stop if he tried, the sound of a belt opening loud in his drumming ears, buttons popping and fabric rustling as Black Hat shifts above him, hands on either of Flug's shoulders. It feels so much like last time, Flug's airflow uneven and lungs rattling as he's being held down with a firm, unyielding grip. And there's _something_ already threatening to press inside, but it feels too slippery, somehow, cold and strange as it slips between his cheeks, and, god, _oh god_ , Black Hat's hands are on his shoulders, but it's still _moving_.

Flug cries out as it pushes inside hard and too, too fast, the sensation so painful and unfamiliar. Black Hat lets out a groan, presses down harder on Flug's shoulders, and there's the ache again as he thrusts his hips for the first time, setting Flug's body on fire as he rips him open. Black Hat fucks into him with slow, forceful movements, the slightest shift pure agony for Flug's body and mind, and then there's _more_ slippery things moving across his backside, wrapping around his thighs to hold him steady with tiny thorns like sandpaper dragging along his skin, and Flug is rock hard, every painful sting surging through him like pure ecstasy.

The tears keep coming as Black Hat spreads him wider, the thorns digging into his legs as they push them apart, tiny cuts forming in the soft, sensitive skin. Flug listens to his own heartbeat as he takes it all, tries to rub his cock into the cotton sheet beneath to try and get this over with so he can _wake up_ , his sick head playing tricks on him again, conjuring up vivid fantasies to satisfy his dirty perversions.

The slats in the matress creak with every thrust and so do Flug's bones as the weight on his shoulders increases, chest burning and lungs on fire as he can't breathe, _can't breathe_ , gasping for air as he cries, cries, cries and cums hard, twitching and shaking as he can finally inhale again, on the fringe of blacking out from bliss and disgust.

The last quick, messy thrusts push the pain over the edge before all movement stops and Flug feels Black Hat shooting warm and sticky inside him, groaning and growling in a pitch so low it vibrates through both their bodies. But Flug's mind finally takes pity on its abused vessel as the world drops dead around him, and in the dark it never hurts quite as much.

  


* * *

  


When Flug awakes the day after, he curls into a ball under the blanket. His lower back stings with every move and he panics, sweaty all over and hyperventilating. Every small movement hurts, and every surge of pain is a delight to his sleepy senses; Flug puts his covered face in his palms, mouthing 'no, no, no, it can't be' over and over and over until the movement of his lips doesn't match the words anymore, and he opens his eyes to try and distract himself.

The bed is a mess Flug is glad to leave behind, stumbling a few steps before he clings onto the dresser for dear life. The pain is unbearable, and the unbidden arousal that accompanies it makes him nauseous, disgust flooding Flug's form as he falls to his knees and rests his head against the wall.

Swallowing his last remaining shred of pride, Flug accepts that he needs it. The sickening pleasures he tried so long to hide have finally managed to warp his sick mind into nightly hallucinations, making use of fantasies he had never known he enjoyed.

So Flug hobbles to Black Hat's office in the evening, banging both fists on the door until it flies open, and the roaring insults being flung at him cease as he collapses forward, grabbing onto black lapels and burying his face in the fabric, whimpering, "Please, I'm begging you, I need it."

And he misses the wide, toothy grin as the door falls shut, but the hand patting his back feels so soothing for now.

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language, so please feel free to point out any mistakes!
> 
> Otherwise, please accept this humble gift from me to you folks.


End file.
